


Getting Out - Side A

by chameleonCharisma



Series: SCP: South Park [1]
Category: SCP Foundation, South Park
Genre: Alternate Universe - SCP Foundation, Blood, Blood and Gore, Gen, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2021-01-16 21:56:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21278357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chameleonCharisma/pseuds/chameleonCharisma
Summary: Sometimes, in South Park, things happen.Tweek wants a way out.He gets it.





	Getting Out - Side A

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back on my bullshit, baby!  
Many thanks to my friends over on the SP Discord. Y'all are the reason this is here. <3

In hindsight, Tweek realizes that he has always suspected _something_. 

His parents’ lingering looks as they foist cup after cup, mug after mug of bitter black brew into his hands. The daily remonstrations when he didn’t finish every drop. The constant fuelling of his fear and paranoia. The casual dismissals. The outright lies. 

They all hurt.

He loves his parents,  
(probably, definitely, probably)  
but coming to realize that none of their relationship is healthy gives him an awful, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

He thinks he hates coffee, sometimes.

He hates the dependency, at least. Hates the way it coats the back of his throat. The way it makes his stomach ache if he’s forgotten to eat. 

He hates the shaking and the jitters and the way everyone stares. They way they whisper. Of course he knows it isn’t healthy. They should try telling that to his parents.

Oh, he’s tried quitting before, of course. He was in middle school when a counsellor pulled him aside. No one had ever really been concerned before. And being healthy, being _okay_, well. That did sound nice.

So he told his parents he wanted to stop. 

You’d think he had suggested shutting down the family business. 

If they find out this time, they’ll be disappointed again. He’ll be a shame to the family. He will be guilted, talked down to, condescended to, ridiculed, treated like a child. In his desperation for it to stop, he’ll start drinking it again. It will be a vicious cycle. 

So, he decides, the coffee has to go. 

(or they do, he thinks, but the thought is absurd)

This time, they can never, _ever_ know about it.

It’s easy enough to set up, to start small. Instant coffee has a lower caffeine content than any of their blends, with the added bonus of still smelling like coffee under scrutiny. (It also tastes awful. He’s painfully aware of how ironic it is that, as problematic as it’s become, they do brew something that actually tastes good. He’s retroactively become a snob and he is horrified.)

A sealed, opaque thermos bottle solves other problems. His parents love to comment on his hypochondria already, so there’s no harm in playing up that angle. Germs; open containers; stranger danger; paranoia. Haha, typical Tweek. 

He spends two weeks slowly building up an illicit supply of low- and no-caffeine teas. A small portable kettle smuggled upstairs in his backpack. Fistfuls of plastic spoons so his parents don’t notice anything missing. He gets very good at tipping cups of proffered coffee into plants around the house or down the sink during convenient bathroom breaks. 

He’s feeling a bit sluggish, honestly, but that's expected. (How long has he been drinking it? Since he was in elementary school, at least, right? Younger, maybe? He doesn’t remember a time without it, and that scares him.)

The day he decides to flush the rest of the instant blend, he’s proud as he does it. Like he’s regained a little control over his life. He makes himself a mug of tea before bed, savours it, and he doesn’t think he’s ever fallen asleep so quickly.

The first day with no coffee at all is hard. Harder than he thought it would be. He’s more irritable than usual, his head hurts, his eyes hurt, and the shaking has actually gotten worse. When his mother trots out the honeyed platitudes about making sure he’s keeping up his caffeine, he’s hard pressed to keep his mouth shut, to not snap at her. No sense in blowing it now. He’s too close. 

He’s restless and achy, but he ignores it. He’s done his research. Withdrawal symptoms are starting, that’s all it is. They’re supposed to come on fast. And plenty of people are getting sick this time of year, too, aren’t they? He’ll make an appointment for a flu shot, and he’ll be fine. No worries. 

The second day is awful. He hurts, he’s exhausted, he keeps jumping at small noises. He drops four plates at the cafe before his mother tells him to go home and calm down. She sends him on his way with a to-go cup of their best espresso. He dumps it down the storm drain behind the shop when no one is looking. He goes home and avoids the sweet coffee candies in the bowl on the counter. He makes a cup of green tea and closes his eyes and takes deep breaths.

But on the third day… On the third day things don’t seem quite right. There’s a dull pressure in his jaw that wasn’t there before; a not-quite-ache in the joints, throbbing, throbbing. The headache is worse. And rather than irritation, there’s a kind of creeping anticipation. He’s not sure what for, but it’s making him feel paranoid. 

Well. More paranoid.

He goes downstairs to eat breakfast with his parents. It’s easy, now, to fake the odd sip. To tip his mug into the potted plant by the door as his mother leaves to open the shop. (It’s starting to look yellow and sickly, the poor thing, but better the plants than him.)

But it’s also hard to focus today, harder to keep from shaking than usual. His fingers twitch and slip-grab-_tip_ and the mug jitters out of his hands, shatters on the kitchen tile. His tongue is sluggish around an apology as his father grabs a broom. 

At least he’d already finished his coffee, his father says. If he only knew.

By the time his noon shift at the shop’s front counter starts, his hands hurt, too. There’s a stiff ache in his knuckles that tapers to sharp pin pricks under his fingernails. It’s so bad he can barely hold a pen to take orders. The pressure is worse, now, too; constant, really. A slow throb that makes his jaw work. He’s salivating, practically drooling, and the continuous need to swallow is starting to make him sick.

It’s telling when it’s his father, of all people, who says he looks under the weather, says to take his break early. 

Normally, he’d go get lunch. Have a cup of tea. Enjoy the sunshine and the crisp fall wind. 

Instead he goes home, up to his room; pulls the blinds and turns off the lights.  
(He’s scared, a little bit. This has to be more withdrawal, right? It has to be normal, doesn’t it? And his jaw _pulses, pulses, pulses._) 

He takes three aspirin, risks be damned, and just tries to breathe.

Going back after is hard, hurts, everything is heavy. His mother has her worried face on. He thinks he might mumble something about the flu, but the whole shop seems to _tilt_, suddenly, and he has to grab the counter to keep from going with it,  
(pulse, _throb_, pulse, _throb_)  
like his feet might skitter out from under him if he doesn’t tie himself down. It’s suddenly very hard to breath around his teeth his head just hurts so much and the room is getting darker and it’s all so very hard to concentrate on suddenly like maybe things aren’t going so okay like this— 

He hears his father’s voice only dimly  
(you alright there, son)  
when the pressure tightens, _bursts_, forces his mouth _wide—_

_red_  
_redredred and hotslick pitterpat splatter on tile_  
_bright like sunlight shine through glass_  
_noise but it stops hands move so easy now_  
_no noise numb like underwater bubble-splatter-cough thick and dark_  
_no pressure_  
_only_  
_red_

Tweek wakes up, cramped and uncomfortable, on the cold floor of the stock room, with a pounding headache. He squeezes his eyes shut against the pain. The bitter taste of black coffee coats his tongue, and even through the discomfort, his first thought is of hurt annoyance. Maybe his parents caught on and managed to dose him somehow.

His hands feel sticky, grimy, his clothing cold and stiff, and he grimaces. He must have knocked something over when he  
(passed out)  
fell asleep. He cracks an eye open, not really wanting to see what mess he’d rolled into.

_Red._

His heart skips a beat — then kicks up to a sharp and painful double-time.

His hands are red. Covered in something wet and slick. A thick, copper-smelling something that he’s having trouble processing.

The pounding in his chest is very loud now. He knows he makes some sort of noise when he looks down at his clothes, sees his chest jump under shredded, crimson-streaked fabric, but the thundering in his ears drowns it out.

He draws in a wheezing, shaking breath.

“Hhhhh-haahh... M-mm-Mom..? D-d-d-_Dad?"_

He staggers to his feet, voice a brittle, aching rasp. He tries not to put his hands on anything, not wanting to leave more  
(blood it’s _blood it’s blood it’s—_ )  
of whatever it is behind.

He smears what he can off his hands and onto any clean patches left on his jeans. 

It takes a long time to work up the nerve to open the door.

His bare feet make sluggish ripples in a spreading pool of red and black. The decanter on one of the coffee makers is broken, causing the dark liquid to spill down the side of the counter. The steady plip-_drip_ into the pool is too loud. 

The normally picturesque front window is a shattered ruin, and the shop itself is a riot of red spatter and smashed furniture. The overhead lights glare down in a red-smeared haze.

His parents are still behind the counter. 

_(red red red-and-wet ragged bone reaching twisted broken eyes sightless white looking looking **looking right at him**)_

The shock must take over, then, because the next time Tweek looks up the police have arrived. He didn’t even hear any sirens. Blood (because obviously it’s blood) has soaked, thick and heavy, into the cuffs of his jeans. The outer edge of the pool is starting to dry, tacky and congealing, and the police officer leaves clear boot prints in the gore as they slowly, slowly approach. 

The officers take him to the station and give him something clean to wear. They even let him use one of the station showers. As the water sluices the worst of the gore away, he tries not to think of the warm wetness of blood lapping at his ankles. 

They ask him a lot of questions that he doesn’t remember understanding or giving answers to. From what he’s managed to gather, they think he’s escaped whatever happened to — the shop. Some kind of monster a witness called in. He’s a lucky survivor, they say. 

He really hopes it’s true. That sort of stuff does happen in South Park, sometimes, after all.

It’s a couple hours before his head starts to clear,  
(don’t think about red and blood and bone don’t do it don’t you _fucking_ do it)  
but then the headache starts to get bad again. He feels awful asking, but the lady officer looking after him smiles kindly, gets up to grab him some aspirin and a bottle of water. 

As if cued to the click of the door, the throbbing starts again very suddenly. He doubles up, gasping for breath. A rush of pressure in his jaw, in his hands, behind his eyes

the room spins and his head seems to split

_his voice is a wordless scream_

_the door op e n s_

_red_  
_red_  
_redredredredred**redredREDREDREDREDREDREDREDRED—**_

When he comes to the second time, it is in the ruins of the police break room. The acrid taste of black coffee is thick in his throat. The vending machine to one side is a sparking wreck, spilling steaming coffee onto the carpet. The walls of the room are painted, running-wet-spatter-soaked with gore, and the police lady isn’t smiling anymore.

There are people in black flak jackets in the doorway. Their expressions are a mix of wary and grim. 

When they ask him to come with them, he does not refuse.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, the plans I have for this series. Stay tuned for Side B!


End file.
